


sing, sing, sing

by Siria



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-07
Updated: 2010-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:38:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stone is cold and hard pressed against her belly, scratching rough-grained against her thighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sing, sing, sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [watersword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watersword/gifts).



> Thanks to Trinityofone for betaing! For watersword, who requested Spock/Uhura, 'reading aloud.'

The stone is cold and hard pressed against her belly, scratching rough-grained against her thighs. Nyota knows she's bleeding, that later she'll have to bite her lip against the sting when Dr McCoy disinfects the wound and blusters at her for being foolish enough to do her job, but this is the only angle from which the inscription is visible. She cranes her neck forward and tries to hoist herself up higher into the gap between the fallen masonry and the temple wall.

"It looks like the instructions are written in Rewoshi," she tells Spock. The light is poor, but she'd know those curving glyphs anywhere. In the distance, she can hear the sound of weapons fire—Sulu, Nyota thinks, creating a distraction with as much flair as he knows how. For the moment, it sounds like it's working, but even he won't be able to hold off so many Klingons for much longer. "Mostly intact, but there's some damage from the blast. I'll read out what I can."

Spock's fingers move quick and light over the computer interface. He doesn't look up from his task, but he answers, "Under the circumstances, Lieutenant, I believe you may dispense with the customary tonal variations required for the most accurate translation of that language. Plain English prose will suffice." To another human, Spock might sound wry; Nyota can hear the worry that lies beneath his words. He thinks that they might not have enough time.

She takes a breath and concentrates on what she can see. Rewoshi is one of the loveliest languages Nyota has encountered—a language that is trilled by its speakers from their tree-top homes, a call-and-response that makes the air echo with its vibrato. Limited as she is by her human vocal cords and her lack of wings, she can best render it into English by singing—or the customary tonal variations, as Spock puts it.

Nyota starts to call out the first line of text—for the Rewoshi, it seems, a technical manual for the operation of a communications device and a religious text can be one and the same thing; if it wasn't for the fact that she has a ship to get back to, a captain to rescue and some very angry Klingons to fend off, Nyota knows she'd be taking notes on her padd right now—and then stops, uncertain.

"Lieutenant?"

She looks back over her shoulder and sees that Spock has paused in his own work to look up at her. His fine-boned hands rest on the console; from outside the temple comes the sound of another explosion and a triumphant yell from Sulu. "Is there a lacuna in the text?" Spock asks. "I do not believe that it will be possible for me to quickly comprehend this device's function without knowing what the text says."

"I—no." Nyota looks back at the inscription, at the five rows of deeply incised symbols which march along the wall of the temple. She's the chief communications officer of the Enterprise, she speaks a dozen languages; she knows what she can do, she knows what her job demands of her, and she can hear the words of the Rewoshi singing in her head. If they want to know how to use this device to get in touch with Chekov, then there's nothing for it but to ignore Spock: she opens her mouth and sings.

With the knowledge that comes from years of training, from some place in the marrow of her bones, Nyota knows that no translation would make sense without this—the lilt of her voice sliding up and down the scale, the pauses and repeated phrases that the punctuation marks tell her to insert. She reads out the means of their escape to Spock with measured breath and a voice that trembles just slightly when the words hover at the very limit of her vocal range. Two days with no sleep are starting to catch up on her, but she narrows her eyes and focuses and tries not to let triumph seep into her voice when she finishes the final note.

Nyota lets her words die away before dropping back down to the ground. The torn skin on her legs stings, but she has no time to focus on it. She pulls out her phaser and moves to cover the entrance to the temple while Spock works on the communications device. Outside, the reddish soil echoes the deep orange sky; against such colours, Sulu's gold command tunic is well-camouflaged, but Nyota can see him approach, running flat out over the rocky ground. Not far behind him are the remnants of the Klingons' strike force—half a dozen of them, snarling things at Sulu that Nyota would never dare translate in front of her mother. "Sulu's almost here," she tells Spock, taking aim. She'll fire as soon as the Klingons are in range. "And he's got company."

"Understood," Spock says. Nyota risks a quick glance over her shoulder, and sees that he's succeeded in getting a display working—in the air over the device, a hologram shivers in shades of blue and green. He's close, and Nyota has to fight back the sharp burst of hope that sends adrenaline bubbling through her blood—it's time to focus.

She drops three Klingons with as many shots; Sulu manages to get another by firing wildly over his shoulder as he runs up the steps to the temple. One of the Klingons manages to clip him on the shoulder; Sulu stumbles but doesn't fall, and as soon as he's inside, Nyota slams closed the building's tall, narrow door.

"Lieutenant Uhura," he says with a grin. His uniform is damp with sweat, his forehead streaked with blood and his left arm hangs awkwardly at his side. He looks quite pleased with himself.

Nyota grins back at him. "Lieutenant Sulu," she replies. "Nicely done."

The two of them jog over to the console in the centre of the room. It looks as if Spock has succeeded in making contact with the Enterprise—there is no audio link, but the blue-green hologram has coalesced into text. "Co-ordinates in binary?" Sulu asks. "Pavel's going back to basics."

"The ensign and I are working under several constraints," Spock points out. The set of his shoulders is tense, and he has to raise his voice a little to be heard over the shuddering impacts as the Klingons attempt to break down the door. "Co-ordinates successfully transmitted. We should prepare to beam up at any moment."

The three of them stand in a close circle, giving Chekov an easier target to lock onto. Nyota feels tension prickle up and down her spine; somehow the waiting now is worse, when they're so close to breaking free. She keeps her phaser trained on the temple door, just in case.

"A creditable performance, Lieutenant Uhura," Spock tells her, just before the cool light of the transporter takes them. His voice is mild, but his words make the corners of her mouth pull upwards. She knows he's talking about what it's taken to get the three of them here, still in one piece; about the way they've taken on so many enemies and stayed standing; about how the echo-and-song of her voice was what he needed to hear—she knows all that, because she can read him, too.


End file.
